Dear Life,

I have been cheating on you. But they mean nothing to me, I swear! At night, after my husband turns off the light, and we say goodnight with a kiss, and the doggies settle into sleep, I switch on my iPhone’s flashlight with the intention of reading my book, but I am seduced. My finger touches the phone’s smooth surface, presses lightly, and scrolls through comments of anonymous strangers about what I might have missed. I don’t even know all their real names. It started innocently. Birthday wishes, adorable photos, reunions. But those have virtually disappeared as angrier, outraged posts overtook them. Did you know the Facebook “Like” button was intended to put positive feelings in the world? I’ll let that sit a minute.

Last night I had an intervention: The Social Dilemma, a must-watch documentary on Netflix that pulls the curtain back, showing me what I have known for a long time but have not wanted to admit:

I am an addict, a user. Of social media and the device that delivers their hit. Sure, I can go days without it, but then the need for a hit is strong and I’m using again. Social media is destroying the real social fabric (an even greater irony than the fact you may reading this on Facebook; but, hey, let the medium carry the means of its demise. We know they’re listening.)

My drugs of choice are Facebook and Twitter, and they are doing existential damage, stressing my body and our body politic. Their algorithms are designed to manipulate our minds, to feed us more of what we “like” and linger over, so that by now what I see is not what you see, and we are led to believe that the “others guys” are insane or evil or stupid. Then we call each other names and the world sinks of its own weight. It is time to quit.

My addiction is also the delivery device. With every notification, the phone seduces me. Someone tagged me in a photo? I’m back using. I got a text? Let me read it this very second, no matter that I’m mid-conversation with my child, mid-searching for a word to write, mid-epiphany in a quiet moment. An invasion of the mind and body snatchers.

Good news — there is a cure. It involves some withdrawal. But it will be easier if we are in this together. We are not going off the grid, throwing our phones in the ocean, as lovely as that sounds. But I don’t have a landline, and so the phone stays. Here’s my plan, and I encourage you to try it with me.

First, the easy ones.

1. Turn off all notifications. (Go to Settings, Notifications, and press “off”). I already feel better.
2. Leave the phone in another room while I’m working, so I am the one who decides when to check it, not the buzzing or flashing device itself that wants to grab my attention. I haven’t checked all morning, and that asking me if I’ve donated to a campaign yet this week can surely wait an hour or two for me to respond. But folks, it has to be out of the room, not face down on the desk, in arm’s reach.

With me so far? Let’s keep going.

3. Delete social media apps from the phone. (Come on! You can always put them back if it makes your life worse, but I don’t think it will. I think it will be a relief.) I already slept better last night, without “doom-scrolling” Twitter.

Here’s the biggest, hardest one, which I haven’t done yet.

4. Delete my accounts. Deleting apps from my phone won’t be enough; I use Facebook on my computer. And though sometimes I use it for good, it is so broken, and doing so much damage, that until it gets its act together, or Congress acts like the grownup and makes it, I am gone. Let these words be my goodbye post, @MarkZuckerberg.

If you can’t go this far yet, start with setting limits: only visit weekly, for a pre-set amount of time; avoid the angry manipulation from nefarious actors dividing us more; read and post only positive and loving stories, and baby photos, and books you love and prayers for healing. I’m not saying stop your activism. I’m saying get offline and actually do activism. Or do more of it.

There will be withdrawal. Let’s learn from that. Let’s learn from how often we reach for that phantom phone. Ask ourselves what exactly are we seeking distraction from — uncomfortable thoughts, or pain, or boredom? Let our twitching fingers show us that how powerful the addiction is, and let us feel the strength of taking our power back.

You can still call and text and e-mail me, or find me here, I just may not reply as quickly. Let’s take a walk, or have a chat on that phone. Let’s catch up where we left off. With each other.

Love,

Laura